Story come!
Once upon a time, in the green rolling hills of the western land, there lived a man whose body always burned hot. His heat did not come from fever or the midday sun, but from something deeper, a restless desire glowing in his chest.
Wherever he went, women softened like wax before him, and he, in turn, melted into them as though drawn by an invisible tide.
But the man carried with him a shadow, a habit, or perhaps a choice. Behind him stretched a path littered with sighs and tears: the fruit of his loins, and the bruised hearts of those who once believed they could hold him.
Time and again, the story ended the same: passion first, then sorrow. He was a flame racing through dry grass, blazing bright, leaving only embers and ash.
Then one quiet evening, as the western hills blushed beneath a setting sun, the flame turned his gaze upon a new beauty.
She was young, glowing, as fresh as dawn after a storm. Her skin shimmered with its own light; her laughter bubbled like sweet palm wine, spilling joy into the air. Her steps floated as though music rose from the earth to guide her feet. She was dazzled to be chosen, trembling with happiness. Her love shone openly on her face, her hope danced in her smile, and her trust lay warm in the depths of her heart.
The people noticed. Oh, how they noticed! From the streets, market stalls and the cool shade of their homes, they watched and whispered.
“Will history repeat itself?” they murmured. “Will the fire that burned so many scorch again?”
Some shook their heads, pity soft in their eyes. Others smirked, lips curling with knowing amusement.
“A man who has tasted and left so many,” they said, “can he truly stay? Can the western flame be tamed by one woman’s arms?”
But love is a wild hunter, slippery and strange. Sometimes the predator finds itself trapped in its own snare. Sometimes a wanderer, weary of endless paths, is caught by a single gaze. Perhaps this bright young woman would soothe his fire, cooling it into steady warmth. Perhaps she would be the one to turn the blaze into a hearth.
Or perhaps she would become yet another tale etched into smoke, a memory left behind like footprints fading on a dusty road.
Only time, patient and sly, would reveal the truth.
So people just watched. They saw the way his hand lingered on hers, how his eyes softened when she laughed, how she leaned toward him as if his presence were a safe harbour. They wondered if the flame’s heat had changed, if it now promised warmth instead of ruin. And secretly, some hoped for her sake that the fire would finally rest.
And yet, others were less certain. They remembered every flicker of his past, every spark that had leapt into a blaze, every trail of ashes left behind. They were wary, for fire is beautiful but never fully tame; it can warm you or swallow you whole, and only a heartbeat divides the two.
So, always remember to guard your matches, fan your embers wisely and don’t lean too close to a blaze unless you’ve packed a bucket of water and a good sense of humour. Because with the western flame, you never know if you’re about to toast marshmallows or roast your fingers.
And so, my dear readers, we close today’s tale with a question hotter than the western sun: Will this new beauty be his forever flame, or just another candle, snuffed out by the wind?
Stay tuned, for love, oh love, never ends with just one story.
